


Imagine me and you, I do

by MidnightBlast



Category: Minority Report (2002)
Genre: Catholic Saint Medal, F/M, Homicide, Office Sex, POV Second Person, Whiskey - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 00:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17652341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightBlast/pseuds/MidnightBlast
Summary: He worked homicide before going federal. You would know - you were there. And you’ve always known there was something about Danny Witwer.





	Imagine me and you, I do

**Author's Note:**

> So I re-watched "Minority Report" recently, and couldn’t let this go. This worked its way out in between writing more demon!Percival Graves. I think I’m officially a hopeless case…Cheers, y'all!

You tear at the catches of your Kevlar vest, breathing deep. As much as you owe your life to the thing, you’re always glad to take it off. You hand it to a sergeant, feeling the adrenaline slowly seep out of your system.

This one was so close. Too close.

The sirens of the first ambulance leaving the scene are a distant noise in your ears. The medics said the perp was in bad shape, but would likely live. You can honestly say you’re a little surprised - the perp and your boss had fallen through a window, and the perp took the brunt of your boss’ fall. Surely, that could kill a person. Fortunately, the perp was made of sterner stuff.

You already knew Witwer was.

Glancing over at the other ambulance, you spot the man - somehow - still sitting upright. The medics probably aren’t happy about it, though. His tie hangs askew but his braces are still pristine against the blood spotted shirt. Dark hair hangs heavy and disheveled over his bleeding face. It never fails to de-age him by at least ten years. No matter how much stubble darkens his jaw.

The medics buzz around him, scanning and assessing - he’d been severely limping and holding his left arm gingerly when they escorted him from the scene.

You won’t be surprised when they cart him off to the hospital, too. He’s officially unfit for duty and the scene is already yours. As it should be when you’re Witwer’s second in command.

It’s an easy walk back into the building. After securing the area, standing down the backup teams, and calling for medical responders - there is little else to do now but clean up. Sure, there will be some fallout from such a pursuit and property damage, but it isn’t anything you can’t handle.

It’s not your fault the perp had run. After hiding off the grid for the better part of a month, he’d finally popped up in low-level shithole and the chase had been on. You’d tried to convince Witwer to stay off the ground on this one - it wasn’t worth his time - but that isn’t the man’s style. He’s never one to hide behind his title and suit while others charge in. It had always been something to admire, especially as you’d risen through the ranks and learned just how much respect the man commanded.

He’d been lucky so far - correction, he is still lucky. But no one’s luck holds forever.

The abandoned warehouse smells repugnant and is littered with all manner of discarded human refuse. A lone spotlight had been hastily erected beneath the shattered window, light glittering off the glass fragments. Puddles of blood mix with the shards on the floor, but you’ve seen far worse in your days working homicide.

The sergeant rattles off the official stats - no property manager; no damages suit; no occupants. After a few photos and a quick clean-up, the building will return to anonymous silence. It still amazes you that empty places like this are even allowed to stay standing. It’s just a vacuum inviting illegal activity to fill the void. But all in all, this is another case closed. Another murderer brought to justice.

You nod your thanks and your concurrence with the sergeant’s words. Another case closed, indeed, you agree. And thankfully, it hadn’t turned into a shootout. Witwer had gotten to the perp first.

The sergeant’s footfalls echo in the rundown space as he goes off to check on the evidence team. You stare down at the floor, lowering to a crouch. It’s still a marvel that both men survived the fall. If you have to bet, it probably won’t happen this way again.

You gaze catches on something reflecting out of the glass shards. Something small with a metallic sheen. A rounded shape - a pendant on a damaged chain. Technically speaking, this isn’t a crime scene, so you reach out. The pendant is cool in your palm and you turn it over, the broken ends of the chain swinging free of the ground. Your brow furrows as you think you sort of recognize it.

You’ve never actually seen the details up close, but you’re familiar with the pendant that Witwer carries. A little silver medal that flashes from his pocket or the collar of his shirt. Just long enough for him to brush it to his lips before it disappears again. You’d never thought to ask him about it. It isn’t uncommon for cops to cling to religious beliefs for protection when their lives are on the line every day. But there is always a reverence to Witwer’s handling of the item. In the way his eyes soften ever so subtly that if you don’t watch for it, you’d never notice it.

Holding the medal now feels like a complete violation of Witwer’s privacy. You can just make out tiny letters - an inscription in Latin. The words wrap around the portrait of a man with a beard and a halo. It’s quite unremarkable to your eyes, but you have no doubt that Witwer knows who this man is, as well as the inscription’s translation.

You stand to your full height, curling your fist around the pendent. The free ends of the chain dangle in the bright light and you take in the damage to the clasp - the missing link, the bent hook. Had he been wearing it? Did the perp grab it for leverage?

Does Witwer even know it’s missing? Probably not - he looked pretty woozily and bleary-eyed as the medics helped him to the ambulance.

You tuck the rest of the chain in your hand just as the sergeant and the evidence team arrive.

X

The jeweler tells you it’s a St. Christopher medal. He recognizes the patron saint but doesn’t know the Latin inscription. You thank him all the same and ask again if you can pay for his repair services. He smiles kindly and tells you the same thing he told you earlier – he’s happy to do his part.

As you exit the shop, the badge on your hip flashes in the window. Ah. The jeweler probably assumed it was yours - a sign of faith, or protection, and you’d brought it in with an obvious need. A testament to a bad day on the job.

Well. He wasn’t entirely wrong.

Witwer hadn’t been cleared to return to work yet. A nasty concussion and a sprained ankle had given top brass the perfect excuse to force two weeks of leave on the consummate workaholic. Not that you faulted him for his dedication – there’s a reason he had achieved so much, risen so high in such a short amount of time. And the man’s good at it, too. An innate sense of doubt, always pushing for that next question and challenging the answer until he’s satisfied. There’s such a sharp intelligence that lurks in his dark eyes, even you’d been stumped a time or two against his knowledge that expanded broader than the average cop.

But then again, you already knew Danny Witwer is far from average.

Those are usually thoughts reserved for late at night. Only brought to the surface with careful deliberation. Only indulged with the slide of your fingers, the gasp on your lips, and the images playing out behind closed eyelids. Only dismissed with the knowledge that the man remains your boss and won’t hesitate to see you replaced if you fuck up.

So, you don’t. You don’t think about the alluring glow that catches in his eyes under low lighting. You don’t think about the husky rumble of his voice after twenty-four hours on a job. And you certainly don’t think about the temptation to kiss the medal where his lips have touched countless times.

Especially not when Witwer’s still out on medical. Especially not when the division is yours to command.

It’s not hard to do. You’ve always been damn good at your job, no matter how attractive your boss.

X

Witwer’s return is met with applause from the floor. He flashes a grateful smile, nodding his head in acknowledgement but he’s quick to shuffle off to his office. It’s another day, after all. There are still murders to solve and more that will happen. You know the two weeks of stillness have likely made him stir-crazy, and he’ll be so eager to jump into everything that he’s missed.

Three days later, and there’s still plenty to review. His sharp mind latches onto the details and calculates angles, postulates theories. You’re proud to say you’ve accounted for 90% of the contingencies and recommendations that he recounts, but there’s always something. Dammit.

Like you freely acknowledge – there’s a reason he’s the youngest head of homicide.

You can only hope you’ll be there someday. Well, you won’t be the youngest – you’re vintage Witwer’s age as far as you can tell – but you will be head of homicide someday.

You rise from the chair opposite his desk, flipping the report file closed. The team in place has done an admirable job tracking down leads, and are likely to narrow down the primary suspect’s location before the end of the day.

“I wasn’t sure Harmon was quite ready when his promotion came through,” Witwer remarks casually, “I’m glad to be proven wrong.”

“Agreed. He’s doing alright.” You shrug a shoulder in afterthought. “His defensive driving needs to improve, though. He’s damaged more fleet vehicles than anyone.”

Witwer quirks a brow. “He had another incident?”

“Oh, yeah. The man can’t reverse worth a damn. No matter how smart the technology.”

“Next time, the repair cost will come out of his paycheck.”

“You drive a hard bargain, chief.”

“The man’s gotta learn somehow.” He flashes a closed-mouth smile that doesn’t reach his eyes before he says his thanks and your name. You’ve always liked the way your name sounds in those tones that haven’t fully lost their Irish brogue.

You turn to head back to your desk but that’s when you remember. You stop short, turning back towards him, watching the expectant lift of his thick brows. “I have something for you, by the way.” The jeweler insisted on placing the medal in a black velvet box and you hadn’t bothered to take it out. The material is smooth under you fingers now as you pull it free of your jacket pocket, stepping up to set it on his desk.

Amused confusion lights his face, his gaze landing on you before darting down to the box. “Aren’t you supposed to get down on one knee?”

You stare down at him, huffing, the corner of your lips lifting. “Just open it.”

He reaches for it, prying the lid open. All traces of amusement fall from his face. He stares down at the medal nestled on the black velvet, eyes wide and downcast. Loss and heartache flash across his handsome face, and once again, you feel like you’re intruding on something very personal – intimate, even – for him.

You take a step back, content to leave and let him compose himself. A sense of satisfaction blooms within you, though. Had anyone else ever doing something so personal for him before?

His voice, when he speaks, is heavy in his throat. “I thought it was lost.” He looks up to you, warm gratitude in his molten eyes. “Truly, I cannot thank you enough.”

“Once is plenty.” Your lips pull to a reassuring smile, holding his gaze for all too brief a moment.

He frees the medal from the velvet, wrapping the chain around his fingers as you’ve seen him do. He brings his hand to his mouth, eyes sliding closed before he presses his lips in reverence to the medal.   

You bow your head, shifting your weight. Team members have long speculated on the true nature of Witwer’s religious devotion – if he really believed, or if he just carried the medal around for show. Watching him now, you have no doubt about the depth of his faith.

“Thank you,” your name rolls off his tongue so smoothly, “it was a gift from my father, on my first day of seminary.” He reaches for his jacket pocket, tucking the medal safely away. “When I woke up in the hospital and asked the staff about it…well, I thought I’d never see it again.”

“Seminary?” You blink down at him, a curious lift to you mouth. “You went to seminary? Should…do I need to start calling you Father Witwer?”

“No,” his answer is soft, “I only went for three years. Never ordained.”

“And now you’re a homicide cop?”

He hums thoughtfully, leaning back against his chair. “I’m sure you can connect the dots, detective.”

“I’m sure I can, too, chief.” It’s not hard to piece together. “Someone close to you. Mother or father? A significant other?”

“Father.”

Well, that certainly explains the significance of the medal.

The urge to hug him tugs at you. To stroke the hair on the nape of his neck. To press gentle kisses to the two moles on his left cheek. To taste them on your tongue. But you keep it all well in check. You’re a professional.

All hints of vulnerability recede from his face, tucked away under the self-sure intelligence that you’ve always known from him. His hand ghosts over the pocket containing the medal, as if to reassure himself it’s still there. “Thank you, again. I’m obviously moved by the gesture, but, I have to say…,” he looks up at you with a smoldering, teasing grin that you know will haunt your fantasies, “removing evidence from a crime scene is rather reckless of you.”

“Technically, not a crime scene. Maybe if one of you had died…but then I’d be buried up to my neck in paperwork and unable to see anything.” His lips pull to an amused smile to match yours. The intensity of his stare makes you feel like the only person in the whole building. “So, thank you for not dying.”

“You’re welcome.” He turns back to his computer with a soft, teasing chuckle. “Anything to make your job easier.”

X

Before you know it, it’s that time of year again. Performance evaluations. Time to sit at your computer and write up assessments of everyone’s job performance. Fortunately, you only have to do nine write-ups.

You’ve long lost track of the hour as your fingers move over the keyboard in a steady clacking rhythm. You paused for food at one point, and the sun has disappeared under the horizon. The city lights shine in through the windows and the office is blessedly quiet. It’s always far better to write up evaluations without Johnson’s gabbing or Vasut’s snooping.

But finally, you put the finishing touches on the last evaluation. You allow yourself a sigh of relief as you lean back against your chair. A yawn hinges your jaw and you roll your shoulders. The price of deskwork catching up to you. That, and a bullet to the shoulder several years ago. You brace a hand against the bone, slowly rolling the joint to work out the stiffness.

You stand up as your computer powers down and you notice flickering light behind the partially closed blinds in Witwer’s office. Of course, the man is still here. He’s probably wrapping up the last of his evaluations, too. Neither of you are procrastinators by any means, but determining who gets promotions and who stays behind is best considered in solitude.

Slinging your suit jacket loosely over a shoulder, bag in your other hand, you start for his office. The soft sound of clicking keys filters out the open door and you don’t bother to mask your footsteps. His back is turned to his office, facing his computer – the only other source of light is a dim, under-cabinet light. The white of his dress shirt is stark against the dark fabric of his chair, and you can just see the curve of his black braces disappearing over his shoulders. Such an old-fashioned accessory, but it suits him.

You lean against the doorframe, waiting. He knows you’re there.

His fingers continue typing, but his voice carries, rough from disuse and the late hour. “If you’re hoping to sneak a peek at your evaluation, you’re too late.”

“I already know what you said about me, anyway.”

He hums softly with an undercurrent of amusement. “And what’s that?”

“That I’m the best you’ve got, and they should give me your job.”

He hums again, mouse clicking as the windows on his screen minimize. The department logo sits against a dark background on his desktop, casting deeper shadows about the small room. He spins around in his chair – not unlike a dramatic Bond villain – but he looks so much more appealing. A couple of hairs drift loose over his forehead, fallen free of their usual neat style. His tie is loose at the neck and just the top button of his shirt undone, just enough to expose the hollow of his throat. His rich, dark gaze effortlessly meets yours from behind his wire-frame glasses that have no right to be so flattering.

Would it really be so wrong to straddle him, press him against his chair and tell him everything you’ve imagined in the dark of night?

His mouth quirks with a conspiratorial edge. “Well, I did try to be honest. Told them that you’re the laziest, most incompetent, and deserve to be demoted to archives.”

You raise a brow. “Archives? Low blow, chief.”

He shrugs, unconcerned. “Do the time, earn the respect and maybe – maybe I’ll let you back in my division someday.”

You nearly roll your eyes, but not quite. “Your ambition knows no bounds.”

“Wouldn’t be sitting here if it did.” He reaches down for a desk drawer, resting his elbow on a knee. His back curves in an elegant arc as he rummages, producing a highball and bottle of brown liquid. Brown liquid that most definitely violates office policy.

You watch him pull the cork free and slosh liquid down into the glass. There’s something uncharacteristically relaxed in his movements as he takes a drink and leans back into his chair. You can’t help but watch him.

He takes another sip before glancing back at you, eyes sparking in the low light. “You should join me.”

“Should I, hmm? So that way I can’t report you for an illegal substance on office property without implicating myself?”

“I would never hinder your ability to make a report.” He raises the glass in a cheers as you step closer to the desk. “No, no – this is about celebrating. Another round of performance reviews completed.”

You can’t help but shake your head as you deposit your bag and jacket on the chair opposite his desk before coming around. You perch against the edge of the desk, his chair half a foot away as you raise a hand, letting your fingers idly stroke along the neck of the bottle. You don’t entirely mean it to come across as a suggestive gesture. Or do you? Either way, he notices. He also notices the stretch of your legs, revealed by your pencil skirt, as you cross your ankles. Thank God you’d shaved your legs and decided to wear a skirt today.

Your lips tug to a grin. “Do you have another glass?”

“Fresh out, wouldn’t you know.” His gaze snaps back to yours, color dusting his cheeks as he holds out the glass.

You take it without hesitating, passing it under your nose. The heat of the alcohol burns. “What is it?”

“Irish whiskey.”

“So cliché.” You put the glass to your lips and the liquid scalds all the way down. A cough bubbles unbidden in your throat on the finish and you feel a flush rise in your cheeks. His eyes are on you all the while, assessing – as if he’s just realized something about you.

You take another sip and it doesn’t burn quite so bad this time. There’s just a few drops in the bottom of the glass and you don’t hesitate to knock them back, too, tilting your head and exposing the column of your throat under the collar of your dress shirt. You lick your lips in the aftermath. “You know, I’m really more of a gin girl.”

“Gin?” He watches you set the empty glass on the desk. “So says the woman who drained my glass of whiskey.”

“Well. When in Rome.”

He snorts as he reaches for the bottle. “I think you’ve just offended every Roman architect.” Liquid spills into the glass and he pulls it back for a drink.

You laugh softly. “I’m sure I’m not the first.”

You watch the muscles of his throat work as he takes a long pull. They’re covered in the faintest hint of stubble from the day and you wonder if you could smell aftershave on his skin.

Wordlessly, he hands the glass back to you and you take a drink in silence. A warm pool ignites in your belly as you indulge another taste and he reaches for his glasses, dropping them gently to the desktop. You shift against the edge of the desk, adjusting and brushing your thighs together. The movement catches his attention but he doesn’t let his gaze linger as he takes the highball back. He finishes the last few drops, tongue darting out along the rim.

Liquid heat ignites in your blood. It’s so damn unfair.

He rises from his chair, like he’s made up his mind, and sets the glass down on the desktop. When he doesn’t reach for the bottle, you can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment.

Your gaze drags from the glass up over his torso to his face. Nothing so obvious that he couldn’t overlook it if he wanted. You can’t stop your soft smile as you continue to take him in. “Done celebrating?”

“Maybe not yet.” There’s something new in his gaze, something mischievous and calculating. Hopeful yet cautious. It’s equal parts thrilling and unbelievable. You’d never actually ever considered that he might harbor attraction to you, too.

Your heart skips a beat when he perches on the desk next to you. God, are you really about to cross this line with your boss? His gaze lands on your mouth and there’s nothing subtle to the gleam in his eye. Your breathing quickens as faint traces of his scent reach you - all cedar and spice. Heat surges through your body and your fingers ache to touch him. Your lips ache to taste him.

The air positively crackles as he draws a breath, eyes dark with hunger. “Full disclosure?”

“Full disclosure.” Desire is palpable on your voice.

“When I kiss you, I’m not going to want to stop. Not until I’ve had all of you.”

“When you kiss me?” The words are barely more than a breathy exhale. His arrogance doesn’t come out too often - only when he knows he can’t lose. Yet you still can’t resist the tease as your legs twitch together in need. “You’re so sure I’ll let you.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up almost sheepishly as his gaze sweeps your face and down your neck before settling back to your lips. “Your choice.”

You lean in closer, boldly brushing your nose to his left cheek, letting your lips tease over one of the moles that’s haunted you for years. The rushing intake of his breath coils aching desire low in your belly. “Then, what are you waiting for?”

His head turns in a rush and his lips find yours - insistent, heavenly, and so fucking  _finally_  perfect.

Time slows and the moments fly. The silk of his tie whispers free from his shirt collar, the metal snaps of his braces swing loose. The leather of his office couch is cool against your bare legs when your skirt bunches up to your hips, but he’s oh-so warm. You cry out at the touch of his body, the press of his skin. The taste and scent of him threaten to drown you, and you need so much more. So does he. Your whimpers are hot breaths into his shoulder and his soft grunts echo in your ear. Your brain and body short-circuit when he strikes home, and he unwinds inside you - the both of you surrendering to everything your body demands of the other.

And he stays with you. Even after you’ve both managed to clean up and redress. Even as you both lay on the couch, pressed together, letting the delirious haze continue to evaporate and sharing another glass of whiskey. Even as the close, inviting intimacy of the couch starts to turn into too many uncomfortable arms, elbows and knees.  

Your fingers dance along the stripe of skin exposed by the top buttons of his shirt that he didn’t bother to close up. The obvious question screams at the front of your mind and you have to ask. “What happens tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” He shifts his left arm, glancing at his watch. “Well, today - when the office opens, I don’t plan to worry about professional entanglements.”

You take a sip of whiskey. “Just like that?”

“You shouldn’t worry, either.”

“No?” You smile at the warm, lingering brush of his fingers as he takes the glass. “So, it’s not a problem that the chief just fucked his second in command on his office couch?”

A rich, smoky chuckle rumbles in his chest. “There’s a couple of things wrong with that statement. But you’ll find out soon enough.”

You try to press for more, but he gives nothing away. The whiskey disappears and you both resign yourself to leaving. It’s significantly less awkward than you thought it would be.

He turns from you in the parking garage and you want to reach out for one last kiss.

But the office opens in four hours.

X

The cryptic words are decoded two days later when a surprise division meeting is held.

Danny Witwer is leaving. He accepted a federal job with a promotion. His last official act as chief was completing performance evaluations. He’ll stay on for a brief transition, but they already have a strong candidate for his successor. More information will be communicated later. Hopefully by the end of this week.

There’s a wickedly smug edge to his grin when he picks you out of the crowd during the announcement.

You want to punch him. You want to slam him against the wall and mercilessly destroy that expression until he’s begging you to let him come. You want to congratulate him. You want to sweep him up and never let him go.

No one really goes back to work after the meeting ends. Everyone’s too atwitter about the replacement - the mysterious candidate. The new chief.

Even you struggle to be productive. When you convince yourself you need a break and stroll past Witwer’s office, he’s not there. You know nothing more about this than anyone else on the floor, and that’s by his design.

Well, maybe that’s not entirely true. You know exactly how he feels - how he  _sounds_  - when he’s sliding deep inside you. Highly unlikely anyone else on the floor knows that.

Within the next hour, the top brass comes knocking. They lay out the offer in a conference room - head of homicide, complete with Witwer’s full approval and commendation.

Of course, it’s an easy answer.

Your feet barely touch the floor as you float back to your desk, elated and victorious. Was it too early to duck out for a celebratory drink? Sadly, you can’t even ask any of the team to join you. HR needed a few days to square the paperwork, so the big announcement will come at the end of the week.

That’s when you catch sight of those warm, dark eyes under a head of pristine dark hair. The knowledge of your secret lurks in the pride of his gaze, in the set of his mouth. His eyes glance around carefully as you approach but there’s no one else in earshot. His voice is soft anyway. “I hear congratulations are in order, chief.”

“Not until Friday officially.” You fail at keeping the obvious excitement from your voice despite your best attempt to hide your smile. “And certainly not while you’re still here.”

“Then, let’s get out of here.” He tilts his head towards the door, an inviting smile brightening his face. “How about drinks and dinner? We both have something to celebrate.”

Of course, you flash back to the night in his office, sharing the celebratory glass of whiskey. No wonder he was so quick to abandon the rules about superior-subordinate relations. Your mouth curves with a playfully suspicious edge. “Is this why I shouldn’t worry about professional entanglements?”

“Because there are none.” His voice drops low as he takes a step closer. “Federal jurisdiction does have limits.” Sparks ignite in your belly at the promising tease in his tone.

You hum softly, considering as you drag your top teeth against your bottom lip. He stares at the movement, hunger in his gaze, and you preen under his attention. “So it won’t matter if you end up in my bed tonight.”

He groans softly, a primal sound that shoots straight to your core. “Not tonight. My dinner invitation, my bed.”

Your mouth falls open to protest, drawing a breath - before he cuts you off.

“Better luck next time, chief.” He winks, the motion full of promise.

Your heart swells as you hold his gaze. “Do your worst, federal man.”


End file.
